


Hopelessly

by Moth2Flame



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Eventual Plot, Introspection, Introspective drabble, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Snapshots, Some Plot, basically its a mess, this ramble is sponsored by too many glasses of cheap wine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moth2Flame/pseuds/Moth2Flame
Summary: He didn’t understand love. He didn’t understand attraction.He didn’t know how time and space could change a truth so solid in your chest.But he’d never been like the others.He didn’t swing, he only wantedAndrew.Maybe that was the problem.(a collection of shapshots of internal dilemma's in Neil's 5th year)





	1. Hopelessly Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a Tumblr thing but I like the organisation of AO3 and posting it here might encourage me to finish it.  
> (anyone who's read my shit knows I'm epically unreliable)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t understand love. He didn’t understand attraction.
> 
> He didn’t know how time and space could change a truth so solid in your chest.
> 
> But he’d never been like the others.
> 
> He didn’t swing, he only wanted _Andrew._
> 
> Maybe that was the problem.

**Hopelessly Adrift**

He’d never even thought about it.

It had always seemed like such an obscure thing, yet another part of human nature and relationships he didn’t understand.

He’d heard Nicky talk about it - desperate and nine colourful vodka mixes down, lip worried over the years- as he sat on the couch and fretted that Eric could possibly want someone other than him, could move on.

They were so far apart, so far away. Even though texts and calls, these things happened.

Neil, uncomfortable and confused at exactly what he could possibly say, said nothing.

He didn’t understand love. He didn’t understand attraction.

He didn’t know how time and space could change a truth so solid in your chest.

But he’d never been like the others.

He didn’t swing, _he only wanted Andrew_.

Maybe that was the problem.

It wasn’t until Andrew graduated, left, and the Palmetto Fox team was all talking about Valentines day – yet another tradition he still didn’t understand- that something grew.

It started as a niggle, a wayward thought. A simple passing idea that floated through his mind like a breeze with nothing to latch onto.

But then it _caught,_ marking the edges of his mind on it’s way past, leaving a tiny scratch, a tear, barely noticeable in the light of day.

There was late night phone calls, texts. Words and voices and, for a moment, a life shared.

But then that scratch started to _itch._

Andrew had always found him interesting, always strived and fought and dealed to uncover his truths and solve the problem he’d proclaimed Neil to be.

But, Neil was no longer a mystery. He no longer had secrets to trade, nor was he in anyway remarkable.

Attraction was a foreign concept, but he supposed Andrew found him attractive, found him worth a second look, a second touch.

But time had passed, and Andrew had moved on, moved away, found a purpose to fill his days and a routine to structure his life.

But what about nights?

Neil wasn’t insecure, and this train of thought was just as foreign and unsettling to him because he had no idea how to process this new development.

Thrashing it out on the Exy court provided no relief.

So the wound went untreated.

And _festered._

No promises had been made between them, not in this, and Neil had no desire to even think about trapping Andrew’s into a deal he knew the other would hold. 

Not in this.

_Never in this._

Andrew had been hurt and abused by too many and Neil would never begrudge him taking back the control of his body he had so long been denied. To take back what he was owed and to finally _want._

Andrew was free to explore and chose and Neil wouldn’t dare think to take that away from him. Not ever.

But it left him hopelessly adrift.

A familiar feeling, but in an entirely difference sense. It was the uncertainty, the unknowing, throwing everything to the wind without any escape plan. Without any desire for an escape plan when all he wanted was to _stay home._

Andrews past ‘hookups’ had never been discussed, although Neil was aware of a history with Roland. That path was far too treacherous to walk, filled with landmines and dark pools that neither wanted to poison the air with.

But Andrew was a man. A gay man. And Neil suspected Andrew felt attraction to certain types of men more similar to the way others of that sexuality did.

Andrew had needs and desires, more so in later years as he’d grown comfortable in accepting and acknowledging them.

As he’d separated them from the abuse he’d suffered.

Neil had been an outlet for that. And, eventually, a hard battled safezone. A willing participant in whatever Andrew had needed and wanted, who never asked for anything.

But now.. _Now maybe he wanted to ask._

But he shook that treacherous thought away as selfish.

Neil had gotten more than he’d ever thought and now, with this distance, maybe Andrew would look for something closer to home –his home- to satisfy his carnal needs and release his tension.

Maybe Neil would no longer be useful or interesting.

Maybe Andrew would just grow bored.

They would always be connected, like two Atoms circling each other in a semblance of frictionous harmony, but maybe Andrew would spot someone else who captured his attention, less scarred and more interesting.

Someone else he could trust enough to _touch._

And maybe that would hurt Neil a whole lot more than he dared even admit.

Maybe that would be another scar to add to his marred and countless collection.

_Maybe it would hurt the most_


	2. Hopelessly Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s this _thing._
> 
> It feels like a tightness in his chest. A hand holding, _squeezing,_ to steal the oxygen from his rushed breath. The weight is unbearable, inescapable.
> 
> He doesn’t run. He drives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 is a bitch to post on a phone, let me tell ya,
> 
> POV Andrew here

**Hopelessly Reckless**

There’s this _thing._

It feels like a tightness in his chest. A hand holding, _squeezing,_ to steal the oxygen from his rushed breath. The weight is unbearable, inescapable.

He doesn’t run. He _drives._

A culmination of insignificant and useless things. Too much. _Too much._ Then,

_Just not enough._

Hand on the gear shift in a control he doesn’t feel. The roar of an engine –so close to red-lining- that it thrums in his chest like it was born from there. He can feel it thrash, clawing at his insides like it could break free at any moment and shred the whole world to bloody, smouldering pieces.

The light on the passenger seat demands his attention, flashing a barely blue against the worn leather.

The ink of the night is ripped apart by glowing red, whites and blues, disappearing at rapid speed. So easy to focus on and so distracting in their all consuming ways. It feels like a fucking metaphor.

He refuses to look at his phone.

His hungry foot presses harder to the floor.

The weight on his chest never eases.

He’s holding on with white knuckles, clenching hard like his muscles want to burst from his flesh.

Holding on feels too much like letting go. He’s waiting for the crash.

A shift in gears and he’s soaring faster, higher. A peak he’ll never reach and a release he’ll never feel.

The engine is screaming at him but he refuses to let it break. Something’s got to give and he’s so damn sure it’s going to be him.

A tune, blaring in the tension surrounding him, cutting through like a deadly blade and slicing it open. The parallel is far to relevant, for surely he’s running off the tracks.

Time is a cruel and fickle bitch.

Weeks somehow feel like years and hours somehow feel like agony.

And, god, how he _hates_ it.

How arbitrary, how goddamn _domestic_ of him to be affected by such useless and pathetic things.

The scoffs he passed at others for their juvenile wants and pinings are hitting full frontal, full force, and the very urge to carve the noxious poison from his veins is so consuming he barely missed driving straight off the corner.

There was a time, long ago, when he had felt nothing.

It was an utter bliss, a utopia, to all of the consumingly self-destructive and delusioned mindscapes he’d developed to stay his hand.

Now, though-

Fucking _now,_

He was tearing down a freeway too-many miles per hour trying to purge the very hint of a feeling from the cursed betrayal of his chest.

His phone kept ringing, that damn train haunting him like a ghost.

And he still refused to answer it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading  
> <3


	3. Hopelessly Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind was a cool breeze, sending waves of his overlong hair into his face. It sent a shiver through his bones, the wind breaking through the thin material of his bright orange hoodie, his only defense against the early spring breeze.
> 
> The cold from the concrete was seeping into his jeans, the loose stones and harsh surface digging into his numbed skin.

**Hopelessly Lonely**

The wind was a cool breeze, sending waves of his overlong hair into his face. It sent a shiver through his bones, the wind breaking through the thin material of his bright orange hoodie - his only defense against the early spring breeze.

The cold from the concrete was seeping into his jeans, the loose stones and harsh surface digging into his numbed skin.

The feeling was familiar, a cold comfort in the air as he stared out at the darkness. The light pollution was a haze, creating a barrier against the still sky and the stars.

The separation of worlds was a metaphor that felt too close to home.

The air was crisp and clear, a sharp spike in the lungs, missing the tang and heavyness of smoke.

His phone lay on the concrete beside him, dark and silent, just like the night around him.

He wasn’t looking at it.

Leaning forwards over his knees, every muscle in his back ached. His shoulders and biceps felt like someone had beaten them with Exy rackets until they turned black and blue, and he couldn’t even feel his legs anymore. It was a miracle in itself that he’d even made it up to the roof, an instinct honed and beaten into him to move and hide with every breath in his lungs.

Now, he wasn’t sure he could leave, the bed cold and empty and he was reluctant to go back to it.

He wouldn’t sleep anyway.

It was funny - in a twisted and bitter way that was hardly funny at all- that almost 6 years ago he’d had to adjust to sleeping alone. And here he was again, an empty space beside him.

_Adjusting._

Like history rolling on a repeat.

Except last time his mother’s empty space was a permanence set in stone, the same cold as her body had felt beneath his shaking fingers the last time he’d touch it whole.

This was only temporary.

_Maybe._

Time changed and moved things, and Neil knew better than attempt to predict the outcome of a year, two, ten, a lifetime.

There were truths, though. Things to hold him steady. A habit of Andrew’s he’d picked up when the days were bad and his thoughts rain wild.

His name was Neil Abram Josten.

He was number 10, starting striker for the Palmetto State Foxes for the final year.

Next year he would be signed to a professional Exy team like many of the others who had graduated before him.

His career was sold to the Moriyama’s. As long as he made them decent money in Exy, he could keep his life.

The space in his bed was empty, but it was only for Andrew to fill.

What he _didn’t_ know, what left him uncertain and adrift, was whether or not Andrew would _continue_ to fill it.

The weight on his chest felt heavy and cold, pressing down until each breath was laboured. 

Uncertain.

It didn’t ease when the number he finally dialled went unanswered.

_Again._

The girls had left, somehow leaving a steadying gap he hadn’t felt since he’d lost his mother. Matt and Kevin soon followed, such vital parts he’d felt in different ways -Matt, so friendly and willing, open to the point of confusion. And Kevin, that solid and unwavering presence that kept him on track and focused. Nicky, Aaron… Fuck, even _Aaron,_ who wore a face he knew so well, but differed so drastically to the face he really knew.

Had touched.

Tasted.

Memorised in every inch and every form.

_Andrew._

There were no words to describe the chasm that had opened up when the last of his found family had left.

The phone kept ringing.

But it remained unanswered.

No matter how hard he _pushed,_ how fast he _ran,_ how high he _strived,_ running from this was as pointless as running from his very shadow.

At least shadows disappeared in the dark.

This, though, was impossible to escape.

It had been 3 hours and 27 minutes since the Boston Bearcats had faced the Californian Cobra’s.

The lack of usual contact was sobering and vitally unwanted, scraping against his mind like sandpaper to an open wound.

In all his life, all his years, he’d dealt with many wounds. Cut into his flesh as blades and seared into his body as burns. He had a threshold for it. Not a tolerance, bit a sick kind of acceptance.

Those wounds, he knew how to treat.

 _This,_ though-

It was _this_ that had him clutching at his sleeves and staring into the light-polluted stars for some kind of answer; like such an open void could give any care for a lonely man who was almost more scars than flesh.

He was fractured pieces pulled into a man who still felt like a lie.

His truth had departed.

He didn’t know what he had left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there's anything else I should tag... I don't think so, but feel free to tell me I'm wrong 
> 
> Also, if you notice any mistakes that aren't my blasphemous use of commas (because I will overuse them til I die, fight me) Please let me know coz there's a blatant lack of beta-ing in everything I do,
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading  
> <3


	4. Hopelessly Enslaved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions are a sticky mess, and Andrew can feel the residue on his fingers like dirty grease.
> 
> A scouring pad won’t scrub them clean, not when they’re as dirty as his insides; a sickly sweet residue left to burn far too long over a heat so low that he hadn’t even realised it was boiling over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for Tumblr posts

**Hopelessly enslaved**

Emotions are a sticky mess, and Andrew can feel the residue on his fingers like dirty grease.

A scouring pad won’t scrub them clean, not when they’re as dirty as his insides; a sickly sweet residue left to burn far too long over a heat so low that he hadn’t even realised it was boiling over.

His own absence had been a cruel thing, leaving him zombiefied like a rotting – but somehow still animated- corpse.

Not that he had much to miss, however, if he was even capable of missing a thing.

_Oh, the cruel irony of that particularly twisted joke._

Picking and choosing his moments to feel had been something dangerously cold, but still gave him a control he’d desperately craved.

 _Now,_ though-

He was a twisted mess of smouldering insides; a slave to things he could not, _would not,_ change.

Because that particular change in circumstance might just be the thing that would finally end him.

He was a hopeless slave to his self-destructive nature. Things had been too steady, too even, and Andrew only existed on crumbling edges.

It was that desperation, that hopelessness, that left him curled up on the windowsill, half a pack down, instead of curled up between sweat covered sheets in his occupied bedroom.

It was for completely different reasons, but those damn feelings brought him too far back, enslaved by the memory of his mind and the helplessness that had consumed his thoughts.

He had a good thing - _has_ a good thing- but he’s bound to destroy it.

It’s all he knows how to do.

“should I go?” his voice weaves into the night, lighting a bright spark against the grey and smouldering darkness that threatens to tear Andrew down to its depths.

He says it like he’s willing to abandon their space, _their place,_ but Andrew knows he means nothing more than the very room.

But if Andrew asked him to walk out that front door and never come back, never _look_ back, then he would follow without question and sever all ties.

It’s this—

_This-_

That is both a draw of breath he hadn’t known he was drowning without, and an ache in his chest that feels like suffocating.

He can only breathe or drown, but somehow _-some fucking way-_ he’s stuck between both.

_Go._

_Go._

_Gogogogogogo._

_Fucking GO_

_… stay._

It makes no sense. None at all. But, somehow, it blends perfectly to pluck at his taut and broken strings like its the only possibility.

A conundrum, much like the man himself.

He looks-

Finally, Andrew _looks._ The glow of light pollution of the city blaring cold and fake through the window, lighting up the copper rust of his hair and lighting his tanned and blemished skin afire like a fucking dream.

If Andrew could sleep, an never wake, then this would be it.

A pipe to his fucking chest and a crack in his shattered, scrambled up pieces.

He waits – Neil always fucking _waits-_ for a decision, a sign, for some kind of answer.

Andrew is nothing but the root of all problems. He is nobody’s _answer._

It was almost easier – in that sick and twisted way- when any choice had been stripped from his flesh and ripped from his core.

Having a choice, having to _choose,_ was both a balm and a blade, grating him down to his very bones and forcing a life to his soul.

It was a choice that rubbed him raw to the point of bleeding. It peeled back his layers to the point of things like _truths_ , and _hopes,_ and _wants._

Ripping his nails from their cuticles would surely hurt less.

He was tearing at every seam, but his voice remained sure,

“no”

Those ice caps met with Andrews hard stare, but the body those eyes belonged to remained unmoved. A pillar stone that read and identified every inch of Andrews unwavering and personified aura of _do not come closer._

Instead, he welcomed himself to the coffee machine, busying himself in the open-plan kitchen of Andrew’s apartment, in process of making the decaf they acquired for nights such as this.

Andrew had no use for useless things like wishes, but a _night such as this_ in their limited time felt like a vicious theft.

Neil stood, only slightly more than an arm length away, his body curling back like he could feel the physical barrier of Andrews space, only encroaching to place a chipped and well-used mug at the space by Andrew's curled feet.

A man so full of words, Neil Josten was so attuned as to when to remain silent. To Andrew, his very presence was as loud as a cymbal crash in an otherwise silent room, but so cautiously aware of noise he made no more than a ripple in the air between them.

As always, Andrew was sucked in like a moth to a burning pyre. So when Neil turned - to move back, away, to grace that unsaid boundary- Andrews fingers moved of their own accord to hook into the band of his stolen pair of sweat's, gracing low on the slender hips of the other man occupying them.

You can’t spend four years of space with a man this closely without learning every itineration of their face, their posture, the unspoken words in their eyes.

Neil didn’t look at him questioningly, he didn’t need to. It was an unsteady feeling, knowing how well he was _seen_ and _read,_ as well as he could _see_ and _read._

Neil slipped himself up onto the table beside Andrew, his feet hooking around themselves as he called his body carefully to his own space and accepted the lit cigarette held his way.

It was a bad night.

A bad week, a bad month, and a bad start to the long growing season that was only growing longer.

But the treacherous thought that consumed his mind and invaded his bones was,

_Can I keep this… just this once?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading,


	5. Hopelessly Unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth: there were some things in life you could not change. 
> 
> Sometimes, something managed to dig so deep under the tender flesh of your skin it managed to spill into your veins - a possessing presence- that even if the root of the change disappeared, that warm oil lined your arteries so heavily that it could never truly fade.

**Hopelessly Unsteady**

The thing was; he hadn’t even seen it coming. 

Truth: there were some things in life you could not change. 

Sometimes, something managed to dig so deep under the tender flesh of your skin it managed to spill into your veins - a possessing presence- that even if the root of the change disappeared, that warm oil lined your arteries so heavily that it could never truly fade. 

Because the root of that change wasn’t just a person, but an idea. A concept. A perspective on life that, once seen, could never be burned from your mind. 

It was a resonating sound that hummed to your very core and kept time with your quickening heart. 

_I am not afraid; for I have survived worse._

_I am not alone; for I have found a place._

_I am not nothing; for I have existed._

_**I have a name. And that name is mine** _

It was ground underneath your feet and a wall at your back. It was more than mere existence, it was _life._

And Neil had gripped it firmly with every scarred and bleeding part of his ruined fists. 

That didn’t mean, though, that Neil was willing to give up the root of this change without a fight. 

He’d always been good at instigating fights -surviving them, even- but it wasn’t until very recently that he’d proved that it was possible for him to win them. 

He just hoped he could win in this. 

There were times - in his past, maybe- that Neil had dismissed a lot of things. But in the last five years, from the moment he touched down into Palmetto, he’d spent his time getting a read on one Andrew Minyard. 

It was a threat he couldn’t ignore, and survival had always been as intricate as breathing. 

So it stood to fair reason that Neil knew, without a doubt, that something was wrong. 

There were many opinions on Andrew Minyard. They weren’t vast or varied, but each had a resounding theme of violence, intimidation, cold apathy, and uncaring. 

Most of these opinions weren’t grounded in falsities. But most of these opinions weren’t made by anyone who actually knew him. 

The thing was; Andrew wasn’t as uncaring, unwilling and uncompromising as many portrayed him to be. 

The thing was; others had just stopped looking. Stopped caring. Stopped trying to see past the cool and apathetic exterior to the raging fire beneath. 

_Dismissed. Ignored. Judged._

All equally unfair and all equally affecting. 

The thing was; the majority of people lived in the illusion of black or white – right or wrong- that they missed how deeply the world was imbedded in different shades of grey. 

The thing was; unlike many others, Neil wasn’t the type who could spend 5 years getting to know a man and not get to know every tick and slack of their face, every still and twitch of their body, every sigh and intake of their breath. 

Neil still watched the world around him; the complexities and frivolous flings, the interactions and dynamics, they way they functioned as a core and how these could affect their game. 

Some called him oblivious, others called him naive, but he could easily see all the dramas unfolding around him. He just refused to involve himself in petty conflicts. 

He saw. He knew. 

Just because he didn’t understand such things didn’t make him blind to them. And he’d never be blind to Andrew. 

But the thing was- 

_The thing was-_

That this current problem started and ended with himself. He wasn’t so naive as to not notice it, he just didn’t know just how to deal with it. 

Neil had studied nothing harder than the way he’d learned to study Andrew Minyard. 

Which was why Neil could see the tell-tale cracks. 

Ironic, wasn’t it, that one of the main threats to his life at Palmetto had become the cornerstone of his reason to stay; had become a rock, an anchor; the first glimpse of steady ground Neil’s lighting quick feet had dared to stay upon. 

Neil wasn’t one to appreciate irony - Andrew was- but that was no solace to the way the ground seemed to shift and drop beneath him, now, as though unsteady with every breath. 

The cracks were showing, and it _scared_ Neil, for one so solid and steady as Andrew Minyard to easily show so many fissures in his foundations. 

The thing was; Andrew had bad days. 

Bad weeks. 

At times, bad _months._

These were neither ignored nor dismissed – the very concept was far too unhealthy for ones so accustomed to suffering in silence they’d barely even acknowledged it as suffering at all- but accepted and taken one day at a time, like every single other day of their lives. 

Another day they were _alive._

Neil knew all the rules without them ever being spoken. It was clear. Cut. And without room for doubt. 

That was what they did, however insubstantial to others. They read the cues, acknowledged the signs 

Neil had his own bad days too; his were fewer and further between, far less easily triggered, but no less acknowledged - both based in that same sadistic side of human nature. 

They would never be what others considered normal. Normal didn’t exist for them; it wasn’t possible nor desired, but they were a semblance of functional and content. Settled. Calm. 

_They were._

But now- 

_Now_ Andrew had him hopelessly unsteady on an uneven ground; that awkward balance of thrill and fear. 

The space and miles between breaths and mouths was clashed with a brutal connection that left Neil’s head reeling with some kind of pleasant whiplash; an ache in his chest, a loss of breath, and a quickening adrenaline like his heart could stutter from the very cage of his chest. 

Desperation was never a word he would have used for Andrew, but nothing else could possibly fit. Nothing else had any hope to describe the way they collided together after months apart, so consumed by the other that the whole world could crash down around them into burning, ruined pieces they’d barely pause in their movements to acknowledge. 

It wasn’t just scary, it was _terrifying._

They’d dealt with a lot of things together. And apart. A lot of things that could crush a person whole and smatter them into tiny fragments. They dealt with these things. They worked through these things. 

But _this_ was a whole different level that Neil couldn’t understand. 

Neil had felt desperation; that resolution of the end, but still fought til every moment he’d thought was his dying breath for survival. 

This, though- 

_Andrew-_

It wasn’t like that. But it was. And it was terrifying because the words didn’t come before his mouth was consumed by the other and he lost all train of thought, so caught up in the hopeless desperation of it. 

Andrew _needed,_ and Neil _gave._

Willingly. 

Of course it was. The slightest hesitation would be cause for a pause, but Neil was so caught up in it too, he just didn’t know what _it_ was. 

If the world was ending, this is how they would share it; wrapped so tightly in each other you couldn’t tell were one of them stopped and the other began. 

Thoughts niggled behind closed eyelids, because they always did. Neil was always consciously aware because a disassociation, a separation, would be a dishonour to them both. 

He was here, he was _real,_ and Andrew was a shining beacon of twilight cast skin with a halo of gold. 

Tomorrow, maybe. 

_Tomorrow_ Neil would push past the fog Andrew was creating and delve into the cracks. _Tomorrow_ he’d nudge at that ever present stone structure to release the floodgates of truth. 

But now- 

Now was just for this; the meeting of mouths and bodies, the whispers of sounds and breaths. 

Now was the moment of world’s colliding in an epic clash that left two souls reeling from the collision of time and space. Now, they were both some kind of desperate, but neither of them cared. 

Now they had _this._

 _Tomorrow_ they would see what became of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably exagerrated in the tags when I said that this actually contained a potential plot.
> 
> My bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading


End file.
